My hopes die as my screen lights up with a notification that he just sent me a message. Motherfucker!
“Shit,” I hiss, grabbing the phone and sliding the message open.
“That’s shady,” he says simply.
My face flushes, even though he can’t see me. I can’t even think of a way to defend myself—I am outright stalking his profile like a creep. Telling him I can’t seem to sate my curiosity about him would be even worse than letting him think I’m a psycho stalker, so I figure I’ll just let him think that and ignore his message.
Only he doesn’t wait for me to respond; he sends another message. “Was that a passive aggressive like because I posted a picture of a girl, or an accidental like because you’re keeping tabs on me?”
All I can do at this point is roll with it, so I send back, “Neither. It was an intentional like, but it was all for the strawberries, not you OR the rally girl.”
“Uh huh,” he sends back, clearly unconvinced. “Strange how you saw my picture, but you’re not following me…”
“Your profile is public,” I tell him. “People on my feed follow you, and I saw that they liked that picture. Purely accidental. I didn’t even realize it was your profile, I just thought the football strawberries were super cute, so I gave them a like. I thought I was liking that girl’s picture, not yours. Once I realized it was your account, I unliked it.”
This is a feasible explanation. It’s total bullshit, but it sounds enough like the truth that I will cling to it with my dying breath.
“I see,” he answers. “Well, if you like the strawberries so much, I’m happy to share.”
“I’m good,” I assure him. Then, before I can even stop myself, I type out, “Did you date a teacher last year?”
“Date? No.” A moment later, he follows up with, “Asking around about me, huh?”
“No, my friend saw me talking to you and she thought I should know that you usually date teachers and strippers, so we’re not in the same league.”
“Didn’t date the stripper, either. You have bad information.”
“I may be using overly polite terminology,” I admit.
“Fuck is the word you’re looking for.”
I roll my eyes. “Gross. A teacher?”
“She was in her mid-twenties, definitely not gross.”
“And married?” I demand.
“I forgot to ask,” he sends back glibly. “Ordinarily I would never sin, being the good Christian boy I am.”
“I’m legitimately stunned you didn’t burst into flames just typing that,” I reply.
He doesn’t reply. I wait, wondering if he’s sending a long message. Maybe he stepped away. Finally, I close the app, figuring he abandoned the conversation.
I should probably get to sleep anyway. It’s late, and I’m already dreading the sound of my alarm in the morning. I climb off my bed and head to the bathroom to brush my teeth. As I’m swishing the water in my mouth, another notification pops up.
It reads, “Were you convinced?”
I frown, typing back, “Convinced about what?”
“That I had burst into flames.”
I cock my head, momentarily confused, then I scroll back up read the conversation. Once it hits me why he stopped responding, a short laugh of surprise bursts out of me. “It didn’t feel like the world had suddenly become a better place, so no,” I send back.
“All that sass,” he types. “You need another lesson about manners, princess.”
“My manners are just fine,” I assure him.
“Come get some of these strawberries and we can have some fun.”
Shaking my head that he would even try, I shoot back, “I’m sure your rally girl is up for all sorts of fun.”
“She is,” he replies, not even denying it. “But I’m inviting you.”
“Should I feel special?” I ask, hoping my sarcasm translates.
“You can feel special if you want to. I’d rather make you feel dirty. I’d rather see all your feelings in your eyes when you hear the cold bite of my voice telling you how to please me. I’d rather you half-naked, on your knees, waiting for permission to suck my cock like a good little whore.”
His words steal the breath right out of my lungs. I don’t have a snappy comeback for that. The agonizing part is his words take me so completely off guard, they cause a pleasant stirring between my legs.
It’s a wicked scene he describes, but as I read his words, the scene unfolds inside my mind and I can see it. Half-naked and little afraid, just the way he likes me. He doesn’t hurt me though, not in my mind. We both know he could, but we both also know he won’t.
I try to shake off the image he planted in my mind. I’m sure that’s not what the scene looks like in his, so I can’t afford to let myself get carried away.
For a moment, I’m almost ashamed to feel a pang of arousal, but I immediately walk myself back out of that trap. Hell no. I’m not going to feel badly about that. It was my body’s natural reaction, and the words are written on a screen. If I just happened across naughty words like those unexpectedly online, of course my body would react to them.